Three Blondes
by IvyShort
Summary: Riza Hawkeye will never know how much she looks like her mother. Grumman character study, slight Royai.


Riza Hawkeye will never know how much she looks like her mother.

You can still remember the gut-wrenching drop your stomach took when you realized this little fact several months ago passing her and Mustang in the hall. You doubt seriously that you will forget it anytime soon, either, as the scenario repeats itself whenever you see your granddaughter. It is a shame, you think, that you cannot appreciate the woman Riza Hawkeye truly is (and she is quite the woman) - it is far too difficult to, constantly looking into the eyes of her mother. No wonder Berthold had gone mad. As much as the man had hated you, he had certainly loved your daughter. To have the love of you life die in childbirth, and the surviving child a carbon copy of the wife you cherished was a terrible thing.

Perhaps they could have bonded on the shared experience had the man ever returned Grumman's letters.

Instead, the man had torn up every photo of Eliza in his house and refused to tell his daughter anything at all about her mother. (Grumman consoles himself that at least Eliza knew everything about her own mother, no matter how difficult it was for him to talk about Diane. He was a failure of a parent, but at least he wasn't Berthold Hawkeye.) If not for the faded assortment of black and white photos in his china cabinet and the identical offspring running around headquarters with several loaded handguns, Grumman doubted even he would be able to recall the face of his lost daughter.

Even their handwriting was shockingly similar, you muse as you leaf through reports and compare them to the letters your daughter had written to you. Perhaps Riza had found an old draft and modeled her script, desperate to cling to any hint of her departed mother. (You find out much, much later that it was a cookbook half-eaten by dust she had found in the attic at eight years old.)

But now, you wouldn't know. Berthold had never answered your letters.

The frostiness had not been altogether undeserved. You know you have made mistakes in your life, and you struggle to remind yourself that you are human and that is normal. Your only real wish is that the mistakes you made so long ago had not led to you breaking contact with your only child. She had, eventually, forgiven you, but her husband never had. You think that she wanted her child to have a grandpa.

What a sorry excuse for a grandfather you turned out to be.

Mustang catches your eye one day in the hall as it strays over his left shoulder. He blinks, giving no indication that he knows exactly why you aren't looking a Lieutenant Colonel in the eye. Somehow, you suspect he does. The man has a spy network to rival your own, and you figure he keeps Riza informed as well. They will confront you someday, stony-faced, demanding answers you are not sure if you are ready to give.

That day, you call him in for chess.

"Win this one, and you have my permission to marry my granddaughter, Mustang."

It is unspoken acceptance, a challenge Mustang readily accepts. He laughs, of course, and you laugh with him – you suspect your secretary is conveying information to Central, and you cannot afford to make it seem as if you weren't joking. (You are not, of course, but they're probably married already and you couldn't stop it if you tried.) Mustang tries exceptionally valiantly that day, finally bringing the game to a draw nearly an hour later. A first. The man is improving. You are teaching him well, you note with pride, and jot it down in your notebook for future reference.

You watch him go and smile a little, forcing down the lump in your throat when you see his lieutenant waiting outside the door. God, you are pathetic. Eliza died twenty five years ago, and Diane another twenty before that. One would think that would be enough time to finish mourning.

Your secretary comments on how bare your desk is one morning as she brings in the tea. Other generals, she says, have pictures of their families and friends. Conversation starters. She is most certainly on the Fuhrer's payroll. You will have to do away with her sooner rather than later. A pity, as she is a pretty young thing, not to mention incredibly organized.

You force a chuckle, twirling your mustache idly. You are an old man, you remind yourself harshly. A batty, offbeat, strange old man that in no way poses a threat to the established government. That is the part you must now play.

You wave her away with casual comment about how your wife never liked getting her picture taken.

She shrugs and flips her hair over her shoulder, mentioning something about how _you ought to change that._

A picture of Riza and Mustang on your desk would be nice, you decide. You can imagine it easily in a delicate mahogany frame next to your nameplate. He would be in dress uniform, your old sword hanging at his side, and she would be in white, as beautiful as her mother and grandmother in a long, flowing gown and the heirloom veil that you managed to save from the attic of the Hawkeye house just after Riza left. They would both be smiling softly, entertaining the photographer because they didn't really need photographs or dresses or weddings, but her grandfather had insisted. All in good time, you affirm to yourself. There are bigger fish to fry.

Nevertheless, the secretary's words plague you until you finally dig through your china cabinet a few days later and wipe away the tears as they come. Your wedding portrait and a picture of seven year old Eliza are innocent enough. You had been a major when Eliza was seven. She spent her birthday at your promotion ceremony.

It's not like you had wanted her to. There just hadn't been any other options.

You pocket a photo of Eliza taken just before her eighteenth birthday. She and Riza looked far too similar for that one to go on your desk. People were bound to start asking questions.

You catch Riza looking at the picture of Eliza one day dropping off paperwork, a faraway, misty look in her eyes.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look a great deal like your mother, Lieutenant?" you tell her, trying desperately to keep your voice even. You know she catches the tiny hitch near the end, but she betways no emotion beside the stiffness in her back as she blinks away the stormclouds in her eyes.

"I wasn't aware you were acquainted with my mother, sir," she replies. She is an outstanding liar, but it hangs in the air like cigarette smoke all the same.

"It's been a long time. I'm afraid I wronged her long ago."

She nods as if this is no significant news to her, eyes lingering on the photograph. You take Eliza's photograph out of your pocket and slip in into the documents she's taking back to Mustang's office. She needs it more than you do. There are more in the china cabinet back home. (You would give all your photographs to Riza Hawkeye if it would vanquish the sad look that always seemed to linger in her eyes.)

"People have always said I look more like my father," she says softly on the way out of the room, clutching the stack of paperwork as if it were mad of gold. She is twenty-six and incredibly strong, but you see the pleading little girl in her eyes. She has always wished that she looked like her mother. You know she has – Eliza did the same thing. Something inside you breaks in that moment, because history has repeated itself and raised a beautiful, strong young woman as strong as steel but as fragile as porcelain. It is painful to watch her doubt herself, and undeserved. There is no reason for Riza Hawkeye to doubt herself, but she has spent too long alone in dark rooms wondering whatever she did wrong _this time _and you can imagine her because you found Eliza that way far, far too many times.

"I assure you, my dear," he says, twirling a pen in his hand idly and watching the ink leak from the tip as blood from a cut, "The only thing you share with your father is your surname. You are Eliza reborn."

It's not a lie. Her blonde is darker and straighter than her mother's, but their faces are nearly identical.

You thank god she does not look like her father.

Or you.

"Thank you, sir," she murmurs, forgetting to salute as she leaves the room. A first of her career, no doubt, but you can hardly blame her. You sigh, collapsing back into your chair and looking at your wife.

"My god, Diane," you mutter, picking up the frame, "How could I have left her with that man?"

The woman stares back at you, smiling softly. As always, her expression lacks the spark it always had when she was living and you hate yourself for thinking that could change. There are no answers in a photograph of a woman dead forty-five years, no matter how much you wish there were. You don't even know what she would say right now – you pretended you did while you were raising Eliza, but you've long forgotten Diane. She is a ghost of kindness and patience, flaws long forgotten to the loneliness of an empty bed. It hadn't bothered you too much when Eliza was a child. You kept yourself busy, after all. No time to think about things like that. You had mourned, and you had moved on.

What a lonely old man you turned out to be.

You stay at headquarters late that night, remembering to leave only when the grandfather clock in his office chimes eleven.

A light shines under the door to Mustang's office as you pass it, slowing your footsteps as you try to reason with the sudden weight in your stomach. It was forgotten, you tell yourself. Nobody stays at the office later than you – especially a playboy like Mustang on a Friday night. Besides, doesn't your granddaughter have a dog? She'd need to be home to tend it.

You push open the door gingerly, relieved to hear the absence of a creak, and look around for the light switch.

Before you find it, your eyes land on the figures at the other end of the room.

She is sobbing, you realize as your stomach drops like it did when you saw her mother walking down the hall instead of her. A photograph is clutched in the hand nearest you, and Mustang is holding her tightly, his own eyes squeezed shut as one of his hands moves from her upper back to stroke her hair softly. Her clip lays on the floor a few feet away, and her hair tumbles just past her shoulders in a web of tangled golden silk. His mouth is moving, whispering things that you cannot – and do not want to – hear in between gentle kisses on her crown. It disturbs you how little noise she is making – you have never seen anyone cry so hard in absolute silence, but you suppose with a sickening feeling that she has had a lot of practice.

The light stays on, and you leave headquarters shaking to your very core, eyes wide with the secrets you have just been privy to. You sit in your car for a long while because your fingers simply cannot grip the key firmly enough to turn the key in the ignition. You could end their careers over that. Competition eliminated in one easy hearing. It shocks you, and you cannot figure out why because in all honesty, you knew, you knew and this shouldn't be a surprise.

And yet it is.

No, instead you keep quiet because deep down, through the jokes and the half-musings and observations, you knew it before and this really changes nothing. No, this had scared you for a different reason and you cannot fully comprehend what it is.

You only hope that one day you can have the honor of walking her down the aisle like you never did for your daughter. That you can mend your relationship with the last of your golden-haired beauties and she will be a little less lonely. Someday you will play your part in making your granddaughter happy.

As if that makes up for anything.

**Why the hell did I write this in second person**

**#yolo**

**Hope you enjoyed! I've always wished Grumman's character was a little better explored in the series, since he seems like a fascinating individual. **


End file.
